


A Woman's Place

by coaldustcanary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Childbirth, Elia Martell Lives, Gen, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 01:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12783525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: In the eye of the storm, Elia Martell must make a new future for herself and House Targaryen.





	A Woman's Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/gifts).



> Based off of the prompt "Elia and her children escape from King's Landing before the sack. Where do they end up, Dorne, Dragonstone, the North?" A character study of two women who shared a great deal. I wish they might have shared more.

Dragonstone was never her place, Elia thought grimly as she wrestled the covering from a stone cistern, pitcher in hand to dip deeply into the water within. She was _in_ the Targaryen fortress of magic-wrought stone, and grateful for it on a night such as this, when a storm’s heavy, foreboding presence was felt even here, within the deepest, most secure chambers of the castle, but never _of_ it. The cavernous room was damp and cold and dark, even with a fire blazing in the hearth and a veritable sea of candles covering every available surface. Their light only served to cast twisted, harsh shadows around the room, and the sound of the water rushing echoed oddly in the enormous space. Yet over those eerie sounds, as well as the distant rumble of thunder and the rhythm of hard-driven rain against stone, Elia could just hear the steady, groaning breaths of the woman laboring in the bed across the room.

Elia edged the cover back into place over the deep vat of filtered rainwater, grateful at least that clean, clear water would never be in short supply here, though plenty else might become so in time. The splashing and musical ripple of the water reminded her of the Water Gardens of her youth, and watching her brothers play and swim while she sat in the shade of the orange trees. For a moment, she could almost imagine the glow of the sun, the heady scent of ripe fruit, and the warmth of her mother’s hands combing oils through her hair until it glistened. That had been her place. And then for a time, by her husband’s side in gleaming, glass-paned halls. Not here in darkness, in the heart of the storm, measuring the time remaining to her in another woman’s familiar, pained gasping.

She allowed herself a moment of self-pity, closing her eyes as she clutched the golden pitcher so tightly that the cunningly wrought decorations of sinuous dragons dug painfully into the flesh of her hands. The weight of it all threatened to bow her back, but she could not allow herself to slump with weariness or defeat. Elia wanted very badly nonetheless to put down the water, to put down everything and run away from this place, but if she did…where would she go? She had been driven into flight already by her husband’s father – he had sent his sister-wife and child here to Dragonstone to protect them, and then flung Elia and her children after them at the last. Whether his impulse to protect them also was an afterthought, a whim of his madness, or because his lip would curl with disdain at her from the stench of Dorne that still lingered, he claimed, three years after she had wed his son, she did not know.

But when the word had reached them not so long ago of the Lannister treachery that had taken Aerys, she had reached out and wrapped her hands around the pale, shaking ones of her good-mother, and silently thanked him for casting her away, whatever the reason. Rhaella had remained silent in her grief, and Elia knew it to be a strange sort of sorrow in the other woman’s breast at the loss of her husband, but she could share in it, then. Too many things bound them together in that moment. Rhaegar, her beautiful and distant husband, the other woman’s shining son, had been like Valyrian steel, rigid and sharp. His loss was a deeply-cutting wound in them both, further dimming the fire that burned fitfully in their veins. But for their children – for laughing Rhaenys, sweet Aegon, and for boyishly earnest Viserys, third of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm – for them they would have to burn on.

And so Rhaella writhed and gasped out her pain in childbed, sweat sticking silver hair to her forehead and neck, to bring forth the last Targaryen of a generation. And Elia could but attend her, easing the burn that threatened to consume her utterly with cool water and soothing words. She marched back across the room, sparing a glance to the other expansive bed on the room’s far end where Rhaenys and Viserys slept, covered by deep red quilts, safe from the storm, and insensible to the other goings-on in the room. Gritting her teeth against the cold, Elia wet a cloth from the pitcher and gently pressed it to Rhaella’s forehead. The other woman sighed, shivering and opening her eyes.

“Daughter.”

“What else can I do for you?” Elia murmured softly, sparing a glance to the bassinet where Aegon lay to make sure he, too, still slept. Rhaella’s head tilted, following the line of the other woman’s gaze, and even in her pain, her face softened as she looked down at the sleeping infant. She pulled the damp cloth from Elia’s hand, and shook her head a little.

“No, no. This one. A daughter. A girl, this time. I am sure of it.” Her slender hands moved over the swell of her belly. Elia bowed her head.

“An aunt to my children, as well as an uncle, then,” she said with forced lightness.

“An aunt who will need a protector. As my son and king will need a queen,” Rhaella said quietly, turning her gaze to the two children who slept across the room, curled up together like puppies. Elia tried and failed to arrest the jerking motion of her head, the immediate inclination to negate the implication of the other woman’s words.

“Good-mother, I…”

“Shh.” Rhaella’s hand moved from her belly to Elia’s own, locking their fingers together. Elia flinched at the heat in them – her touch burned. The Dowager Queen’s fire was burning brightly, and Elia’s skin prickled as warmth flooded into her at the other woman’s touch.

“A thought only. The dragon wears a heavy crown of duty, and they will be drawn to one another to fulfill it. But children are children still, and they will all need protectors.” Rhaella drew a deep breath, blowing it out while her fingers tightened on Elia’s momentarily as she weathered the pain.

“When this child comes, you will take her, and Viserys, and Rhaenys, and Aegon, and you will leave this place. This storm comes with storm lords hot on its heels, and I would not have you trapped here only to starve while a different sort of storm rages,” Rhaella said softly.

“This one, she will come soon, so soon now. Her name…I shouldn’t say it while she’s not yet born, it’s a thing of ill-luck, they say, but I’ve known her name now for many days. She whispered it to me. _Daenerys_. She _knows_. The blood of the dragon knows so much, but not enough, more’s the pity.” Rhaella’s voice was hardly a whisper, and Elia had to strain to hear her words.

“The last Daenerys found her place far from Dragonstone, far from King’s Landing, as I’m sure you know, Elia Nymeros Martell.”

In the pale pink and white stone halls of her youth, shaded from the sun and heat, cooled with cunning flows of water and air, Elia could remember a portrait of Daenerys Targaryen, wife of Prince Maron Martell, which had hung with pride of place. She was remembered fondly in Dorne, much admired for her beauty and grace and strength. As a child, Elia had glanced sidelong at the image, her brow furrowed with doubt, wondering if she could possibly have been as beautiful as she was painted when she had lived. It seemed hard to imagine – nearly as difficult to imagine as the thought of returning now to Dorne, flung away from the familiar once more to a land where she might once again be a stranger.

Rhaella leaned back into the pillows piled behind her, her face momentarily falling slack as the pain of labor eased for a time. Sweat beaded on her brow, and though she had released Elia’s hand, the warmth of her body was palpable still, like standing near a hearth’s glow.

“We will leave this place as soon as you are able. I will speak with Willem Darry and his men…” Rhaella shook her head sharply, damp tendrils of silver hair lashing against her shoulders.

“You will not wait. Speak to him now. She comes soon, I think, and there are preparations you will need to make. You must not wait on me, not for anything. I have given her a name. Take it, take her, when the time comes – take them, and go.” She gasped in a pained breath and her hand clutched sharply at Elia’s arm, shaking, but her eyes burned with purple fire. Wordless, Elia nodded, and squeezed the other woman’s shoulder.

“Go, go. And send in the women as you go, it won’t be long now. The children may wake, but they’ll be safe here, at least. I…I’m sorry, Elia. But I need you. I’ve no-one else who can do this, who can give them their place.” Rhaella sounded suddenly uncertain for the first time that night, and Elia shivered, before leaning in and pressing her forehead to the other woman’s.

“I will do as you ask, Rhaella. They’ll all of them have safety and love, just as Daenerys did. As she _will_.” As she turned to hurry from the room, her jaw set firmly, Rhaella’s words followed her to the door.

“As will you, Daughter.”


End file.
